


Take

by wildarcana15



Series: Want, Take, Have [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brotherly Love, Don't copy to another site, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Sam Winchester, Pining, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-15 22:38:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16942035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildarcana15/pseuds/wildarcana15
Summary: The ugly print on the motel curtains is weirdly comforting. It’s familiar in it’s distastefulness, which Sam appreciates, because he needs something to ground him.It’s one of those days, today. His skin feels fevered, stifled by the room, and he has to bite down a whimper at the physical stimulation moving causes. He’s so keyed up from his tangled dreams that any sensation is too much, and the scrape of harsh sheeting over his bare torso is almost agony. He sees his dreams in flashes, taunting his waking mind with glimpses of Dean, of soft lips and skin salty with sweat.





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work in progress. I currently have a migraine so I'm not tagging everything properly, I'll do that with the next chapter update - apologies for this. I hope you enjoy the first chapter in any case!

The ugly print on the motel curtains is weirdly comforting. It’s familiar in it’s distastefulness, which Sam appreciates, because he needs something to ground him.

It’s one of  _ those _ days, today. His skin feels fevered, stifled by the room, and he has to bite down a whimper at the physical stimulation moving causes. He’s so keyed up from his tangled dreams that any sensation is too much, and the scrape of harsh sheeting over his bare torso is almost agony. He sees his dreams in flashes, taunting his waking mind with glimpses of Dean, of soft lips and skin salty with sweat.

He clears his throat, hears how hoarse it sounds. He scrubs sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand, and ignores his body into obedience, tugging on workout clothes and snagging the keys to the room before he heads out into the morning.

The air is blessedly cool on his skin, and he takes a moment to revel in its sharpness. The sky is washed of colour, the sunrise blooming behind buildings he’s not in fact tall enough to see over. He pockets the keys and pushes himself into a run, in an attempt to subsume his riotous mind through the pain and satisfaction of exertion. He tries to let his mind live purely in the feeling of it, drags himself painstakingly back into his skin and away from his fantasies. 

After a mile, he starts to sink into the calm of it. He pummels the pavement with his feet, finding release in the strain in his lungs and muscles. It’s not the release he knows his body craves, but it’s good enough. It sees him through. Athletes deny themselves before important games, he’s read that somewhere, and it’s not his own fault that most of the time he needs to be at the peak of his game. It probably is his fault that indulging himself would do more and worse than just put him off his game. It’s a fucked up thing to want, and he’s come to terms with that, slowly, over the course of many years of living and wrestling with his own thoughts.

He breathes out harshly, tries to breathe out the want with it. He’s been running for long enough that sweat is wicking into his t-shirt, and the sun has brightened the sky to a pleasant blue.

His feet bring him back to the motel without his explicit permission to do so, and he shrugs to himself, shortens his strides, and comes to a halt. He spends half a minute with his hands stretched behind his neck, opening out his chest so his breathing recovers faster. He still feels muzzy with repressed need, but it’s bearable. He releases his hands and lets them swing to his sides with a muffled thud, and lets himself back into the room.

He’s practised at handling their close quarters by now, so the sight of a shirtless Dean swearing at the coffee maker makes him smile reluctantly rather than want to crawl out of his body and hide in a whimpering wreck of need. It would have been a close run thing if he’d been a teenager, though. He remembers how sharp the want was back then and ends up speaking to try and distract himself from Dean.

“You do realise that insulting it isn’t gonna fix it, right, Dean?” Sam instantly realises his mistake, because now he’s drawn Dean’s attention.

He shifts uncomfortably under Dean’s narrowed eyes. He looks frustrated as hell, his damp hair sticking up messily, and he suppresses a snicker at the mental image of Dean as a disgruntled hedgehog. It’s remarkable how cute Dean can make the dishevelled look.

“Shut up, Sammy. I need my goddamn coffee, okay!” Dean’s voice is raw with sleep, and if Sam looks closely he can see light indents on Dean’s skin from where the sheets wrinkled overnight. Abruptly the want surges to the surface. He wants other kinds of marks on Dean’s skin.

Sam shakes his head, trying to clear it, and nudges Dean aside with his shoulder, ignores Dean’s small sound of protest. He deftly knocks the side of the machine and presses the button to empty the slot for the coffee tab, and lets the mangled foil that had snagged the works of the machine land on the counter. He snags the packet Dean chose from his surprised hands and drops it into the slot, snapping the mechanism shut and grinning as it starts to pour out the coffee properly.

“There. Sometimes you do actually just need to hit it. The one time you don’t try the violent option, dude…”

“I - hey!” Dean glares at him. “You’re lucky you didn’t break it! I thought you said “percussive maintenance is for idiots and IT consultants” or something.” Dean’s lips are twitching into a smile, for all that he’s pretending to be insulted. Sam kind of loves that he knows that about him.

“You actually listened to what I said?” He leans back against the counter, tilting his head and eyes down so he can watch Dean.

“Just ‘cause I don’t do what you want me to doesn’t mean I don’t listen.” Dean says this like it isn’t a big deal, like it isn’t something that’s infuriating and endearing - and hell, if he’s starting to romanticise this kind of crap he really, really needs to get it together.

“No chick flick moments.” Sam levers himself off the counter and ignores Dean’s sharp glance. “You better not have taken all the hot water.”   
  
“About that…” Dean really, truly, does look apologetic. He unfortunately chooses that moment to take a sip of the coffee and moan in appreciation, deep and content and sufficiently dirty that it wipes a solid fifty percent of Sam’s higher functions. “God, Sammy, so good…” His tongue flicks out to lick at his slightly reddened lips and Sam snaps. 

He darts forward and snatches the coffee, downing it in one large gulp that he regrets instantly as he feels it burning down his throat.

“Hey! What the hell, man?” Dean has the audacity to look outraged.

“Dude, you steal the hot water, I steal your coffee. Now we’re even, jerk.” Sam puts down the mug and moves across the room to grab his towel, beating a swift retreat to the bathroom for cover.


	2. 2

The shower is about as cold as the coffee was hot; his mouth feels slightly sore, but luckily not quite scalded. He shivers his way through his routine, cleaning himself in efficient swipes and somehow manages to avoid thinking about Dean too much. He’s almost glad of the icy temperature. It feels like pin-pricks smarting over his skin, and it’s impossible to indulge in hot, steamy fantasies when his reality is quite so frozen.

He rubs himself down with a travel towel; Dean uses motel ones but frankly neither of them know where those things have been, and Sam prefers his towels clean and not horrifying. For a germaphobe, Dean’s remarkably laissez-faire about some things. The thought absolutely does not make Sam smile fondly, and if it does the smile is quenched as he drags on his clothes to try and warm up, and finds that it helps precisely nothing.

He emerges from the glaringly un-steamy bathroom, and glowers at Dean as he towels off his hair. Dean’s still not put on a shirt, but Sam’s just about uncomfortable enough for it to not matter anymore. Cold water drips from his hair down the back of his neck, and he shivers at the sensation.

“Jesus, Sammy. The hell did you do, decide to take a swim in the freaking Arctic in there?” Dean looks concerned, which is a good look on him as far as Sam’s concerned, for all that it typically precedes unnecessary fussing. 

“You took the hot water, man. Not my fault their water tank is also their icebox!” He’s never resented Dean’s ability to acclimate to temperature quite as much as he does right now.

“Come over here, Sam.” Dean beckons, a surprisingly gentle smile crinkling the edges of his eyes, and for a moment all Sam can think about is kissing him right on those tiny, beautiful imperfections. “Sam?” Dean frowns, like he’s getting impatient, and it’s still endearing. Even when it’s firmly Dean’s fault that Sam’s miserable right now.

He’s so far beyond screwed.

He grabs onto a flannel shirt as he moves into the kitchen, over to Dean. He’s entertaining the idea of putting the shirt on to help him warm up more - his t-shirt is short sleeved and he can see the hairs on his arms standing up while Dean seems supremely unaffected. Then Dean’s hands are on his arms, and they’re blissfully warm, and Sam forgets everything but the feeling of Dean’s rough, wonderful fingers brushing over his skin. His eyes flutter shut, and he hears the shirt drop to the floor before he registers that he’s dropped it.

He tries to pull away, jerked out of his reverie by the feeling of soft flannel on his bare feet. Dean rolls his eyes, and grips his arms harder, tugs him in so Sam’s pressed up against him.

“It’s my fault you’re turning blue, Sammy. Let me help you warm up a bit.” Dean sounds amused, and calm, assured in a way that makes Sam just want to melt right into him. He tenses himself, tries to pull away, but Dean’s having none of it and rubs his hands over Sam’s arms, transferring warmth before he pulls Sam’s arms around his waist and wraps his own around Sam’s shoulder. His other hand slips just under the top of Sam’s t-shirt, a steady warmth behind his neck, and Sam lets himself tip forward under Dean’s guidance. 

He ends up resting his forehead on Dean’s bare shoulder, Dean’s body warm and solid against him, sandwiched between himself and the tiny kitchen counter. It’s like Dean’s touch is a magnet, because the way he’s tilted towards Dean feels somehow inevitable. He knows he’s probably just cold, seeking warmth instinctually and is definitely light-headed from running so hard without any water or food to prepare himself - and the sudden caffeine hit from the coffee can’t be helping. 

But it’s not just that. Dean’s always been able to scramble his mind into a mess of yearning, and this is just a moment of weakness against years of struggling to hold strong against Dean’s easy charisma and hard-won competence.

His mind is spinning itself into a web of confusion and desire, and as he warms up he realises sharply that this morning’s problem is far from gone. Just staved off. Without the luxury of a shower to take care of it, he’s always been able to take some time out to settle the want back down, and if he’s sometimes bitchy during that process, it’s ultimately Dean’s fault.

With Dean’s arms around him, holding on firmly to transfer warmth, he’s trapped in more ways than just one.

“Uh, Dean?” Sam begins, but he’s really not sure where he was going with that sentence, because for the life of him he can’t think of a single good reason for them to stop this - whatever this is. Cuddling is hardly in Dean’s vocabulary, and this is distinctly vertical, not horizontal - and now he’s thinking about Dean and horizontal in the same sentence, which is not a good plan when he’s pressed so close they can feel each other. And then Sam’s caught up in a whole new distraction because he thinks he can feel Dean’s - Christ, there’s no way, he’s seen it, not that he’s been trying to, but it happens when you’re sharing close quarters constantly, but this is closer and almost firm and far, far too real.

Sam lifts his head and inhales, sharply, to clear the scent of Dean’s skin fogging his mind. He pats Dean on the back awkwardly and this time Dean lets him pull away.

“Sorry.” Dean’s looking away now, and this is why he’s tried so hard to keep himself from caving to the desire, because this is barely scraping the surface of what he wants from Dean and it’s already awkward. Dean looks uncomfortable, and this, this is one of the few looks that Sam doesn’t love on Dean. “You just don’t have my natural awesome ability to cope with the cold, huh?” The joke is barely that, and it’s brittle as hell, but it’s better than nothing, and Sam seizes it gratefully.

“Not all of us can be Mr. Freeze, Dean.” Sam teases, as he lifts the shirt hooked over his foot, and steps back further to put it on. Takes several deep breaths, and feels his head gradually clearing.

“Hey!” Dean looks up, and the offended look cements their dynamic again, makes Sam grin impishly. “I’m Batman!”

“Sure you are. And I’m Buffy.” Sam rolls his eyes as he buttons his shirt. The hug - embrace - from earlier is something he can compartmentalise, set aside as just another moment they’ll never discuss. They have a lot of those.

“Ain’t no way you’re Buffy, bitch. I’d be Buffy. We’re both badass, hot monster-fighters.” Dean reaches behind him and brandishes a burger. “Plus, we both bring back burgers for our annoying punk-ass little siblings.”

Normally, Sam would give Dean hell for getting a burger for breakfast, but right now his body is desperate for something to add to his bloodstream other than caffeine, and a heart attack feels less imminent than impending death-by-hunger. He manages to take the food slowly, devouring it in several bites without a single word about it’s unhealthy nature.

Dean’s looking at him like he’s an alien, but the greasy food is everything he needs to ground himself. He doesn’t recall getting drunk the night before, but his system is definitely wired wrong this morning.

“Dude, you’re not even complaining about the fact it’s not health-food? Who are you and what have you done with my brother?” Dean grins at him fondly again, and it’s the icing on the cake of weirdness that this morning is shaping up to be.

“Dean,” Sam says, unreality starting to grip at his consciousness. “Dean, I can’t remember last night.” He’s starting to panic, tries to breathe and the air feels like it’s doing nothing for his lungs at all. “I don’t remember checking in to the motel, I don’t - Dean, something happened, maybe it was the shower, something’s wrong-” Then he’s blacking out, darkness eclipsing his vision, and the last thing he sees is Dean’s smile collapsing in on itself as he lunges to try and catch him.


End file.
